Idiosyncratic
by HowAboutThisForAName
Summary: Zoey reflects on her life, and finds it somewhat... Themed. Yogscast fic, somewhat dark, not much swearing nor excessive angst, but it might get you down.


Idiosyncratic

Her roots were long gone, burnt away by the cleansing fires of magic; those Endermen knowing her people posed a threat uncanny of other civilisations, and had followed through appropriately.

It was ironic, these tree people with an affinity for fire, divination through such means giving them the foresight to protect their young against the threat of the encroaching black, and even then many had been hunted down.

An entire generation had been evacuated and promptly split up, sent to the many other kingdoms of Minecraftia where they would be raised by civilised people rather than the warrior people of the fungi highlands. They were given the one virtue of their original existence, a letter system conducted by a single young man, who had passed it on to his son, and so on it would be.

These children would write to one another, citing experiences and sharing information they had gleaned from their local libraries and elders, among other sources. They all faded, however, the grasp of both the kingdom strife of where they lived and those Enderborn still hunting them –a disgusting fusion between Man and Ender to create one with their powers but the ability to go unnoticed- closing more than one notebook, and the courier failed to uphold his duty because of this, maybe meeting the blade himself, she wouldn't know.

Then she had met one of the enemy, a man of confusion and mild paranoia, of magic and a deep seated hate for those monsters despite not knowing why; yet she did. He did not know his origins, mild amnesia playing on those possibilities like some kind of subconscious sadist, but he did know that he hated certain men just as much.

Little else mattered, it was all hate.

Was he moulding her? Perhaps, but that really didn't matter to her, though she was only there by leading actions presented by his kind, it was not while she was a conscious being, just a babe when the fateful night had taken her people. She had grown fond of him even before yet another disgusting draft of humanity's inevitable lust for destruction, that silly war between scientists leaving magic and the mundane warped and constantly shifting, as with the mage's own idiosyncrasies.

And for a while that's all it really was; idiosyncrasies, he would make a ring, make an armoured piece, upgrade another, and so on. Perhaps there was some minor threat, some little event to stir, such as when they found their now-mute once-talkative dinosaur clad archer friend hiding in a cave, bruised and obviously disgusted with the war of science, or so she felt, the look he and her master shared something that conveyed more emotion than words could, and that was important for someone incapable of speech.

But all things had to come to an abrupt, crushing end, and that distrust and paranoia of his welled up again at that screen and left her out of the fold, extradited by her own means and those of his own, however exuberantly overplayed it may have been.

It may have been relief, and little else, for every night she had to stop her hand from strangling the life out of that wizard. Vengeance for her people now lost more than enough incentive to burn the man into a desiccated husk, though she knew it would not be possible without drawing on the powers of her ancestors, though she rarely did so lest conditions of anger and aghast overtook her. But she was more reserved than that.

For a while, the sentient fungi her ancestors worshipped had taken her in, and this is where she had come across the compassion necessary to let go, or perhaps it was disgust. They controlled her, through many means including her friends, and this angered her so much that she would eventually turn on them, an inevitable thing really for one born of fire, and she lost that respect for her ancestors even as she did not lose her love for those fungi more caring, as strange as it sounded.

But before that, she would meet one of the perpetrators of an event that saw a continent crack both literally and figuratively, a somewhat dashing figure of blonde locks and clever eyes, comfortable with his lifestyle and distinctive in outlook, caring little for the squabble she had come to understand between magic and science, as another beared fellow had illustrated so nicely.

This mechromancer was diffusive, and perhaps she gained some inkling of a schoolgirl crush for it, seeing him as a gentleman who treated a friend and yet stranger with respect, apologetic for his previous actions if not repentant. But just like her other mentor this was just a façade.

She saw the two face off, a guardless speech that saw the former threatened and the latter aggravated, neither willing to excuse themselves for sins so ancient that were it not for their magical advantages or scientific concoctions they'd both be the graves she wanted to make of them, at least after the discussion.

So she abandoned the man's philosophy, somewhat, and instead drew on her allies –if inconsequentially- to take her away from both him and those mad underworld creatures, their hubris as gods long dead incredibly agitating and arousing of discount, and she had been no exception.

She went back to her master, and understood how dire his situation may have become, and while so utterly appalled with his own sins now unearthed, she decided that the weapon under his base was a more pressing matter, and offered her services as the handy mechanic she had been known as in recent weeks to overpower the gridlocked nature of the weapon, even if it felt like rubbing salt in a wound.

But her idiosyncrasies got in the way.

Where she failed, a long darkness followed, dreams and memories she'd rather forget practically shouting at her for their sadistic nature, or perhaps masochistic if one stared at it in the right light. Godless men and their means, how averse she had become to such matters whether it be politics, ideological paraphernalia or other such relatively trivial pursuits, the word jaded was more appropriate than even the man's or the others' reasons for it's use.

She had grown stronger for it, in a sense, if the mechanical whir of her arm was anything to affirm this, she could kill a man from thirty yards with little drain on her being, but again this may have been a shallow assessment. He had grown as well, taking the new magic –ever shifting as it was- in stride and allowing her tragedy to shine light on his own insecurities, and honestly she felt this was selfish, but she never had the guile to comment.

Nope, she was just the apprentice, the underling, some girl to whore out for needs mentally and physically challenging, as all these men had proven this fact. Maybe it was her fault, perhaps it was just another idiosyncrasy, and she just couldn't care less.

But then again, no one else did, and if she didn't care for herself who would? Was she doomed to hold her now cybernetic hand from stabbing or exploding or simply strangling the life from the masked fellow that called her friend? That was no life to live, regardless of the path she took.

So she was stuck, and it would remain that way for however long, even as these men forgot each other and turned to their own devices, she never would. Whatever had come of it, she wouldn't recognise it, nothing but the near death of a young woman to make for all this other detrimental fusillade men had for each other, but only the gods –and those that were not fallen and rotting- knew, and that was quite sad.

With this kept at the forefront of thought, maybe he wasn't so idiosyncratic, but her herself, one that dared to show compassion, and was squashed for it. Given time, maybe it would repair itself, but she doubted the fact.

If this was the case, perhaps it was normal to be cold and disgusted with everything foreign, and that was how this started, and how it ended, but that was an entirely other topic in her opinion. No for now she was fine to sit and allow condemnation from those around her, for her or each other, and again, this was very sad indeed.

But that's just how the ball dropped for the would-be warrior woman, just how the ball dropped indeed, especially if she kept up these thoughts.

…

**God, that's fucking depressing.**


End file.
